


Spiritus et Phantasma

by AvaKelly



Category: Marvel
Genre: Accidental Death, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aromantic Character, Carnival, Cemetery, Coma, F/F, F/M, Gen, Ghosts and Spirits, Haunted Houses, Immortality, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Magic, Mentions of Death, Multi, Recovery, Traveling Circus, death is a primary subject, hearing loss, so don't read if sensitive
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-09 19:23:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8909002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: A loosely connected collection of short stories around the theme of spirits and ghosts, based on the prompts from the Twist of the Year December Solstice 2016 event.





	1. A Fallen Soldier

Clint takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly. But it doesn't help because he can't actually draw air because he's—well, he's not dead, not yet.

In a coma, his file says where it hangs on the back of the door.

His body lies in the hospital bed, unmoving. His chest raises and lowers due to the pumping of the ventilator, but his muscles are still. Not a twitch in sight. Most of the bandages are wrapped around his head and Clint has already heard enough doctors commenting on how his hearing is gone, should he ever wake up.

Should he?

Clint's not so sure. What would he do with his life now? Being a soldier is all he's ever known. Growing up in a circus has not given him that many opportunities. However, learning to be an excellent marksman ensured he got drafted into the black ops forces with great teammates and a lot of structure. Now, though? What would he be now? His colleagues, although skillful, had not also been his friends. No, Clint is done.

What he doesn't understand is why he's still here. Why his body clings to life.

~

He likes the kids' ward the most. Some of them can see him and he tells them stories of the circus, causing smiles, especially for those unvisited by parents or guardians. Especially for them.

It's when he roams the hallways one day, bored, that he stumbles upon the room of Lt. Samuel Wilson, the guy that saved Clint's life.

The mission went to shit halfway through. A few explosions later, Clint's team was almost destroyed and the pararescue was sent in. He knows this because he's been listening to his superiors talk in his room when they thought they were alone.

Curiosity pushes Clint to enter the room, looks around for a while. So far no adults have been able to see him, so he's unconcerned.

Wilson is reading, unawares. There's a sort of warm silence in the room and Clint sits on the armchair in the corner. Well, as much as an untethered soul can sit on furniture. It gives him a sensation of comfort anyway, so Clint lays back.

~

He develops a routine. The morning is for the kids, the afternoon is for Wilson, who's suffered heavy burns on his legs when he pulled Clint out of that building. His healing is very slow, and Clint finds himself wishing for it to go faster. Not from gratitude, but from wanting to stop that grimace Wilson makes when his meds run low.

"Wish I could heal you," Clint says one evening.

"We all wish for unattainable things," comes back. "The trick is to never regret."

It takes a moment before Clint registers the answer. "You can see me?"

Wilson rests his book in his lap and nods before extending his hand. "I'm Sam."

"Clint."

This is how it starts.

~

"Listen. You have to wake up, you have to fight," Sam says, serious gaze pinning Clint where he sits on the edge of the bed.

His fingers are cold, his skin smooth, and Clint runs his palm over Sam's knuckles.

"There's nothing for me—"

"Please, Clint. Wake up before they turn it off. Please."

~

Clint feels like he forgot something. For weeks, in between screaming unheard inside himself at the pain and the loss and his permanent injury.

The nurses are nice, the doctors sour, but they all say one thing; his hearing is not going to be what it was. He might get by in civilian life with aids, depending on how his healing goes, but he can't go back to active duty.

~

He forgot something important.

There is someone—someone he forgot. But who?

The aids make his ears itch, he should stop falling asleep with them on.

~

Clint gasps awake from his nightmare, the last image burned on his retinas is Sam's face as he dives after Clint.

Sam!

He rolls off the bed, stumbles into the hallway with a lot less grace than he wanted, but he makes it there, to Sam's room. The hospital is relatively quiet this time of day, the staff busy, and Clint grins before pushing open the door. Sam rarely sleeps at this hour anyway—

The room is empty. Was he released?

There's his favorite nurse coming down the corridor and Clint turns to her.

"Where is he?"

"Where's who?"

"Sam Wilson, the man who was here," Clint points to the room. "The guy who rescued me."

Her face shifts from confusion to sorrow in the span of a moment and Clint's heart lodges in his chest.

"Oh, honey, Lt. Wilson died on the operating table the same night you were brought in. He was never here."

~

There are numerous ways for a man to take his own life and Clint can perform most of them with accuracy.

However.

Sam has spent days upon days convincing Clint to live.

So that's what Clint will do, even though he'd rather—

~

Someone's laughter reaches Clint as he fixes his aids in his ears. He doesn't hurry in exiting his trailer, his bit isn't starting for another hour in the main tent, so he sneaks a cig from Murray. He's used to it by now. Do a few tricks, get the audience laughing. It's not as satisfying, but it's something he knows how to do.

That's when he sees her.

The new woman. What was her name? Romanova. She claims to be psychic and Clint snorts at that because he knows all the tricks. But tonight of all nights—tonight is—when they both died, four years ago. Him and Sam. So Clint flicks the bud away before walking over to her booth. She's alone right now and Clint would like about five minutes of fantasy.

She smiles and tells him everything he wants to hear. She even lies prettily, that Sam will hear his plea and come back to him.

~

Clint has a friend. A single, lonely friend. She's a former operative, that's clear in her stance and habits, but Clint won't bug just as she doesn't.

He has a friend and he has Sam, who visits him sometimes in the evenings. They sit in silence, watch the walls, read. Actually, Clint reads while Sam rests his head on Clint's shoulder, there but not.

Why or how, Clint doesn't know, but he won't question it. He'll settle for this silence while he waits.

~

Clint leans on his cane, knees already shaking from being on his feet all morning. Natasha's grave sits in front of him, right next to the plot he bought for himself, for later.

He smiles at the dried grass that will cover his casket.

"I'll see you soon," he tells the air.

~

Sam smiles, arms crossed, as he stands on the other side of Natasha's grave, watching. Clint has grown old and just as Sam thought, he's helped so many runaway kids while with the circus.

It was a good choice, to make him go, to wait. It was a good choice to save him. Sam regrets nothing, except maybe not being able to speak to Clint.

"She's here," James says as Natasha's specter takes shape.

"Good luck," Sam tells him.

He's gone, with her, soon after and Sam smiles at that, too. Just when he was ready to give up, James taught him how to make himself visible to Clint. Sam's beyond grateful.

"James left?" comes from the side and Sam turns to see Steve floating closer.

"They'll be back," Sam comments. All spirits who don't pass through keep coming back these days.

Steve hums, tries to kick at a small rock, but naturally it doesn't budge. "I'm bored."

"I saw trucks in front of your house, go haunt whoever moved in."

Steve sighs. "I did."

"And?"

"He's driving me crazy!"

Sam laughs and steps toward Clint as he wobbles away. He waves a goodbye to Steve. Must be sad to be tethered to a place instead of a person, like Sam is. With Clint, Sam's traveled much more than he did during his life. He falls into step with Clint, runs his palm over Clint's arm who stops with a shiver and a grumble. 

"Yes, yes, am going as fast as I can. Hold onto your wings, birdie."

Sam grins.

Soon.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Feel free to participate in the event!  
> Many thanks for Tanouska and Hraf for the help with this story.  
> I have a really bad headache, hopefully I can finish the second story by tomorrow. If not, it will be delayed a day or two, but it will come. Enjoy.


	2. For Science

Steve swings his legs back and forth as he sits on the edge of the roof, watching the cemetery. It's not his first choice of a home, but he is stuck here, in this old place that nobody wants to inhabit. All the better, because Steve's not in the mood for company.

Afterlife came with advantages and disadvantages, that's for sure. For one, he is no longer sick and can choose to shape his ethereal body whichever way he wants, not something most ghosts can do. Steve just had a lot of practice; ten decades next year. It comes in handy when he's trying to scare squatters. It's also why the house hasn't been sold in a while.

On the other hand, he's pretty much stuck in the house because ghosts apparently can't roam free. Steve rolls his eyes. He chose to stay to see the future. The turn of the century has been filled with the promise of wonder and Steve wanted to see space and other planets at first, then flying cars and robots, now he waits for both. Needless to say he can't see much from his house at the edge of the cemetery. He'd sneak into the neighbor's homes to watch the television, but everyone around his radius has moved away over time.

All he has these days are the passing spirits. Those that deem it useful to talk to him anyway.

About a decade ago, though, Clint and Natasha moved in as caretakers for the cemetery. Already old, but did their job. With them, came James and Sam and a bunch of mirrors that for some reason surrounded the little administrative house on the other side of the plots.

Steve sighs again, just as a loud crash resounds from below.

This guy is going to be the death of him. If he weren't dead already. No, actually Tony will be the death of his house and Steve looks at the sky before he wills himself to sink through the house all the way to the basement, where the lab is.

Tony's a scientist, it seems, and the day he moved in Steve was filled with anticipation and curiosity. Alas. It seems that Tony's creations are all trying to kill him.

"Please don't blow my house up," Steve mutters—

"Aaaack!"

A screwdriver flies through Steve's head while Tony flails backwards onto a work table, sending more tools to the ground.

~

So it turns out Tony can see Steve.

He can't hear Steve, though, but he learns sign language just to be able to communicate.

Even though Steve _doesn't know_ sign language!

The man is infuriating and Steve swears continuously as he tries to follow with the video lesson. Good thing it has subtitles.

~

Tony never shuts up. He asks more questions than Steve has time to answer with his awkward signing.

But hey, it's company, even though Tony's driving him up the walls. Literally. He keeps trying to shove his hand through Steve's spectral body. For science, he says.

Steve thinks he's just lonely.

~

"So you wanted to see a flying car, right?" Tony asks, big grin on his face as he stands in the middle of the basement next to a tarp.

Steve's been banned from coming downstairs for weeks, but he humored Tony. So that's what he was doing. He nods, expectantly.

With a wide gesture, Tony pulls the tarp away to reveal a small car. A switch is turned on, motors are starting, the car shakes as it lifts, and sways and—

"Tony!"

But Tony can't hear.

~

It's been four months and six days since the incident.

Nobody's found the body yet because nobody's come to check on him and Steve's incorporeal gut twists with the sadness. The feeling permeates even the walls of the house, because of course Tony's tethered to it, too. When Steve passed he was sickly and all he had was mother, but even then there were people coming around, talking to her, remembering Steve. They all tapered off after a couple of decades, but Tony—Tony has no one.

So Steve pushes away at his anger and enters the lab. Tony hasn't moved from his curl in a corner.

"Come on," Steve says, crouching down. "Let's go outside."

And Tony looks at him like he's a lifeline. Silly man.

Steve extends his thin fingers, curls them around Tony's shoulder.

"I can hear you," Tony breathes. "And feel you."

"I can feel you, too."

"You're not cold anymore."

As a matter of fact, they're not alone anymore, either, and Steve whimpers at how annoying afterlife will be with Tony here. He hopes not too much.

~

It's incessantly irritating.

So many questions, so many stories and theories and theorems.

Steve never asked for the theory of relativity explained. Nor did he particularly want to know the atomic composition of boron. Or how heavy metals and heavy metal are a curly wig away from being in the same—what did Tony say? Argh, he doesn't know anymore!

However.

He can't avoid Tony for more than half a day, twenty four hours tops, because Tony will go back downstairs and it won't be pretty. It keeps the house frosted over, even in the middle of summer, if Tony's reminded of his solitude, so Steve keeps him busy, which isn't an easy task.

On the plus side, he's never met anyone so openly curious about things and with a sarcastic quip to everything, although lately the sarcasm is turning softer. Maybe Tony's starting to accept death. He can't, though, figure out why Tony's staying, but Steve has learned that Tony's not like anyone else. He's unique in both unexpected and expected ways. With Tony, things are less boring, monotony alleviated.

~

Steve shoves his hands in his pockets while Tony watches the milling workers, arms crossed, chin resting in one hand pensively.

"So," he starts, "medical examiner's moving next to the cemetery."

"Seems like it," Steve shrugs.

"Wanna go scare them?"

Steve glances at Tony from the corner of his eye. He looks _alive._ Always so alive. The fact that he doesn't have any visible wounds isn't helping either. He's still dressed in soft sweatpants, a worn t-shirt, barefoot with his hair in disarray. Steve shakes his head.

"You're not scaring anyone looking like that."

"That's why I have you," Tony says, wrapping an ethereal arm around Steve's shoulders. "Small and skinny and looking like death warmed over."

With a grunt, Steve elbows him away, but a smirk forms on his lips. That's right, Steve never had a chance to show Tony what he can do. So he focuses inward, pulls and prods at his own essence, stretches himself like molten metal into the shape he needs.

"Whoa, kid," Tony breathes.

"I was twenty five when I died," Steve says with a grin. "Not my fault I was sick."

"And," Tony waves a finger, "this muscly self of yours is what you'd've looked like otherwise?"

Steve shrugs again, this time smiling smugly from where he's looming over Tony. "I like comic books," he says and starts toward the cemetery. It's a good day for a walk. Or a float. "Didn't get to read many, though."

"I have comic books," Tony returns. "On the tablet. All of them."

"And how do you suppose we _use_ your tablet?"

"Well, we're energy," Tony says. "Tablet runs on electricity, which is another form of energy. Between you and me I think we can figure it out. For science."

Steve stops and smiles. Ok, so maybe being stuck with Tony won't be that bad.

Not at all.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone o/  
> Again many thanks to Tanouska for the unending patience.  
> Feel free to participate in the event! :)


	3. The Man in the Mirrors

Natasha's life has never been easy, but she has made the best of it. Every time the universe put obstacles in her way, she has done everything in her power to go around, above, or even right through, that one time.

It's how she ended up here, with the traveling carnival, where she performs as Madame Romanova, the illustrious descendant of Russian monarchy with a lingering dash of Rasputin's magic. She can't help a smirk every time she sees the painted ad on the side of her trailer. Her heritage is nothing this fancy, but her smarts have let her read people, their expressions, their cues. It's what she does, offering them the illusion that their loved ones are talking from beyond the grave.

Pft! Love. Love is for children, as young Natasha learned all those years ago. Now she's pushing sixty and she's a little too bitter about lost connections.

At least life here for the past few years has been good. She even made a friend, the archer. Just as recluse as she is. Maybe he has the same background. Black ops? Assassin? What are the chances... but Natasha doesn't dig. Barton doesn't either, and everyone else gives them a wide berth. Both, though, bring good money, which is enough to have their place here amongst the freaks and the broken.

This is home.

That's why, when it starts happening, she is more frightened than she'd like to admit.

And by it she means the premonitions, her _fake_ predictions, are coming true.

Today the main tent floats above the ground. It's scaring the animals, although it's just a few inches off, not enough to be visible from the road. The acrobats are refusing to go in and Natasha trembles because, last night, she over dramatically warned a bratty boy that if he doesn't eat his vegetables, the tent will fly, taking the kid with it to the land of terrors.

Natasha swallows.

This is bad, as Barton would say.

~

However, she wasn't a spy for all those years without at least some investigative skills left over, and she puts them to good use.

Two weeks later, she is certain that whatever is going on originates from the mirror tent. First, the predictions that involve mirrors do not come true. Second, all happenings are taking place inside a radius of the mirror tent, more of them closer, sparser when further away.

It's a little past midnight, everyone asleep, and Natasha makes her way toward the mirror tent. The night is cool, but not cold, at the beginning of summer. The land around them is deserted, the town next to which they've stopped glittering with lights in the near distance. It's how they like it, close enough for visitors, but far enough for privacy.

Natasha listens carefully. Nothing stirs.

She slips inside, through the winding corridor, between sheets of glass. Her own silhouette's movement catches at the corner of her eyes, but she keeps her attention split on everything, a throwing knife at the ready in her palm.

A gunshot.

She stills.

But no movement accompanies the sound, the mirrors undisturbed.

Voices follow. Someone shouts between chaotic firing.

Pain blooms in her abdomen, right where—

The mirrors shimmer with traces of life, images foggy and distorted. It's—yes, it's that day. That memory, being played back to her, through all her senses. She isn't injured, not right now, but she was during that mission, years ago.

But why?

Why—

A man is hidden behind a column of the town square, the muzzle of his rifle visible over his shoulder, covered with the tips of his dark strands of hair.

Natasha frowns. She has no recollection of this. She lost consciousness, soon after being shot, blood loss too severe. But she woke up in a hospital the next town over, all patched up. Nobody, doctors or nurses, had any idea where she came from, just that someone cauterized her wound before she could bleed out. Someone kept her alive. Given, it left her with a permanent limp and ended her spy career, but Natasha feels she's been better off. She was already forty when this happened, already close to not being useful anymore, so she took the opportunity to let the intelligence world think she was dead.

Wait. The column is not—

It's a mirror! The man is here and Natasha's heart pounds against her ribs. She aims, throws, the knife passing through the space between two sheets of glass to embed in the wall behind them.

The tent is dark.

Quiet.

Still.

Natasha shakes.

~

She goes back there every night the tent is installed, every night they are not traveling between cities. She lays traps and markers, but ultimately finds no sign of an actual person. It's frustrating, because someone is definitely there, Natasha can see his outline in between the mirrors, moving, watching.

On the other hand, the fact that some premonitions are coming true is attracting more gawkers and Natasha is busier. She's learned the drill, however, and only makes harmless predictions these days, especially for kids. Their smiles remind her of her own lost innocence. Perhaps she's getting old.

A couple of months later she decides to take Barton's advice and talks to the stranger. Sits in the middle of the mirror hall and talks. Speaks about her day, sometimes about her past. How that one lioness always comes to greet her with its head against her palm every time Natasha visits their enclosure.

Until, one night, he sits across from her, cross legged on the floorboards, the dusty surface undisturbed.

The apparition makes her skin break in goosebumps and she shivers despite herself at the sudden drop in temperature. His face looks young, barely thirty, but his eyes are old with pain and suffering. He watches her, interested, head tilting slowly this way and that as he takes her in.

"Hello," Natasha says.

His lips twitch with a smile, just as he looks away.

He's gone too soon, but now she knows.

He is real.

~

Natasha lies on her bed, in her trailer, parked as close as possible to the mirror tent. She can't stay away, not for long. It's like her soul is tied to it.

That's fine, though, because he's there. Every night, kneels next to her bed, caresses the side of her face with that small smile.

It's been ten months.

He hasn't said a word.

But he's clearly the one bringing her predictions to life. He's clearly the one who saved her that time.

Clearly, because he's still wearing tac gear, a thick vest, combat boots. His right cheek is streaked with a faint trace of dirt, while his left temple... there's one bullet wound.

A single hole, small and round and bleeding down the side of his face.

Forever bleeding.

"When did this happen?" she asks him again, for the thousandth time, but he just smiles wider. " _Why_ did this happen," she breathes.

He leans closer then, to press his incorporeal lips to her forehead. The touch is not a touch, but a sliver of sharp cold, and Natasha shudders.

Oh.

No.

No, please—not for  _ her. _

His face, his gray eyes, they're saying yes. Because he saved her.

~

Natasha's been waiting for nearly twelve years, but it's finally time. The casket, plain and pine, is lowered into the ground. Clint stands there, her friend, the receipt for the two cemetery spots in his hand. Sentimental fool, she thinks, but hey, he's her only friend.

Amongst the living, that is. Now that she's here, watching from the other side, many things make more sense than they used to. She shakes her head at her old friend. He doesn't have long himself, she can see it now, but life doesn't end it seems.

Doesn't end at death.

Across the grave,  _ he  _ stands.

Waiting.

Smiling.

She slides closer. "I'm Natasha," she says. She can see herself reflected in his eyes, her hair red instead of white, her skin smooth instead of wrinkled, her eyes seeing instead of almost blind.

"James," he whispers.

"Hello, James."

"Hello."

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Third story already!  
> Many thanks again to Tanouska, Bee, and Hraf for the feedback and patience and edits.   
> *slides plate of brownies over*


	4. The Haunted House

The air feels prickly, both with cold and with the stinging smells of the old house. Peggy’s heart pounds against her ribs in an asynchronous beat to the creaks and groans of the house. The walls seem to be moving, the floorboards appear to be shifting.

"Get it together, Carter," she mutters under her breath, "it's just shadows."

A soft snort comes from Sif and Peggy squints her eyes at her.

"This is all your fault," she grits. They've been separated from their friends a few steps after walking in the front door.

If Sif wouldn't have dared Peggy to spend the night in a haunted house—actually no, Sif _taunted_ Peggy.

"Stop whining," Sif says and Peggy smacks at her arm.

This is terrible. The worst. How the hell is she going to save face now? After shrieking involuntarily earlier when Sif popped at her side, Peggy's irritation grew proportionally to Sif's proximity.

Bloody stupid situation is what this is.

Peggy's heart rabbits quickly when Sif pushes Peggy behind her as she peeks around a corner. It's a protective gesture that's both pleasant and revolting. Pleasant because maybe Sif doesn't hate her and revolting because Peggy can take care of herself, thank you very much. Just because she's the leader of the chess club doesn't mean she's a wuss, but instead a strategist.

Sif, on the other hand, is the highschool's top athlete, with her fencing skills and medals and—ugh. She's so beautiful and elegant.

When Peggy moved here, away from everything she knew back in London, the only other foreigners were Sif and her friends; Fandral, Volstagg, and Hogun. Their parents are historians, just like Peggy's mum. That's why they're all here, because the university that hired them is renowned and Peggy is happy for her mum—she sighs.

Things were well for about a month, but Peggy had to go develop a crush on Sif. It also didn't help that she made friends with the boys in chess when Monty and Jacques moved here, too. Peggy grew up with Monty and Jacques, they were the brats of professors, always running around scaring guests at stiff academic parties. She was so grateful to see friendly faces, that she didn't notice when things changed.

For three months the good natured competition between chess and fencing for the top spot in the glass achievement case has turned sour. Pats on the back became sharp verbals jabs, the easy banter became a turf war over cafeteria and library tables—

Peggy looks at Sif's back, regret balling in a lump in her throat. It's all their fault. Hers and Sif's, because they couldn't stop poking at each other.

And that—that is all Peggy's fault, really. Because Peggy couldn't muster up enough courage to go ask her out. Instead, everything she said turned mean and now—now they're here. Lost in this old creepy house without their friends.

Peggy shudders with the unison ping of their phones. She doesn't want to look, so she waits for Sif to pulls her phone out first. The texts they're getting are the same anyway. It's been going on for over an hour as they make their way through doors that are open one moment and locked the next.

"Are you afraid of the ghost? Shouldn't you be looking for the real threat?" Sif reads from the screen, then tuts at it. "When I find out who's doing this, I'll—"

A creak echoes through the room and Peggy stops breathing. It's coming from behind her, from where Sif is staring, eyes wide. Her ice blue irises sparkle in the low moonlight streaming in from the partially boarded window and Peggy would like nothing more than pull her out of here, take her to safety.

Something touches Peggy's ankle. The shadows grow larger, and larger, and Peggy lunges at Sif, knocks her out of the way. It ends up with both of them sprawled on the dusty floor, while a rat squeaks as it runs past them before disappearing into a darker corner.

Sif's laughter is too loud as she picks herself up. Peggy follows suit, confused, adrenalin making her limbs shake.

"It was just a rat," Sif gasps. "You should see your face right now."

No, Sif didn't just do that on purpose, just to scare Peggy.

There's a prickling gathering at the base of her nose and she won't. She won't cry over this, not over this monumental jerk, Peggy deserves better. So even if she can't stop the tears, she doesn't try to reign in her anger either. She swings and it hurts when her fist connects with Sif's jaw. Sif stumbles back, stunned, eyes wide and scared. Damn right.

"You bloody arse," Peggy yells and throws her other punch, but Sif catches it. "I thought you were in danger," she says without meaning to, and tries to cover it by hitting at Sif's shoulder with her already hurting knuckles.

But Sif is taller, bigger, stronger, and catches Peggy's flailing fists with ease, wraps her arms around Peggy to keep her still. Great, now Peggy can't leave and can't hide her face.

Sif will know and—

The tight clutch turns soft, while Sif's hold transforms into an embrace.

"I'm sorry," Sif says, sounding sincere, but Peggy won't fall into that trap again.

"Why do you hate me," she mumbles. It's not at all what she wanted to say.

However, Sif goes rigid in her arms, jaw working even though there's already a shadow forming where Peggy hit it earlier.

"I don't hate you."

"Then why—"

Sif lets go suddenly, which crowds Peggy's words in an even larger lump in her throat. Everything is colder and Peggy shivers.

"I don't know how to talk to girls," Sif says, throwing her hands up. "You especially."

She's frowning and glaring and Peggy takes a step back. So that's how it is. Well, Peggy's never backed down from a fight in her life and she won't now. It's time this stops, even if it means telling Sif, even if it means putting her heart out there to be stomped on further. But Sif, though belligerent to Peggy, is not mean. No, she's a good person, it's why Peggy fell for her in the first place. It didn't help with the hurt, however, not when Peggy had to watch Sif be nice to anyone but her. So Peggy gave as good as she got until it escalated to the haunted house dare. 

This can't go on and Peggy lifts her chin.

"I'd like you to stop trying," she says, causing Sif to look at her in alarm. "Stop talking to me. It hurts too much because I love you and if there's any decency left in you, you'll leave me alone."

There. She said it. Now, where's that exit? Peggy turns, takes a step, two, three—warmth presses onto her back, followed by hands around her waist and a sob.

"I love you, too."

~

"Mhm," Dr. Rhodes hums, absorbed by his computer. "And then what happened?"

Peggy swings her legs where she sits on the table next to Sif. They exchange a secret smile.

"And we decided we were even," Sif says. "I mean we did make each other cry. Peggy more."

"Tsk." Peggy pushes at Sif's shoulder with her own, but without any heat. It earns her a small peck, the sweetest, coldest thing.

"So how'd you end up here?" the doc asks, rotating in his chair and standing up.

"Turns out something _was indeed_ after us in that house," Peggy says. "Killer mold. Our friends didn't know about that when they decided to set us up. Wussies were tired of our—how did they put it, luv?"

"Whining," Sif says, unimpressed.

Dr. Rhodes blinks at them a few times before he grabs a pair of gloves and a mask from the counter. He moves toward one of the tables, pushes Peggy's hair off her face.

"Did your friends get sick, too?" Dr. Rhodes asks and Peggy shrugs. "Do you want me to call the hospital and find out?" They both nod. "All right. After I finish the autopsies."

Sif jumps down and walks closer to the table. "Awesome breasts, babe," she says with a grin and Peggy smacks her ethereal shoulder.

"Not as good as your eyes," she counters.

"Sap."

Peggy kisses her quiet. It's—different. Cold instead of warm, but when their lips touch, they both feel it in every atom of their spirits, reverberating through eternity, forward. Like Sif's eyes in the darkness, like the moonlight in silence.

Like brilliance.

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. Feel free to participate in the event!  
> Again many thanks for Tanouska and Hraf for the help with this story.  
> o/


	5. A Friend for Forever

It's the ninth time they received a call from this address and the ninth time Maria came all the way down here. As usual, Phil was entirely unhelpful, offering her his seasoned detective smile. Yeah, yeah, he has seniority, so here Maria is.

The house is old, decrepit in most places, with a garden that could bloom to wonderful life if revived. Maria's passed it many times when she was a student, always thinking about how wonderful it would be to have it, care for it. Anyway, the salary of a cop won't ever amass to however much this mansion might cost. Also, pre-1900 houses are illegal to sell these days.

Well, only the haunted ones.

If one were to ask Maria about her biggest regret, she'd undoubtedly say "the day I admitted I can see them." In all fairness, it's a special talent, genetically inherited through patterns that the scientists haven't figured out yet. She was a child and couldn't foresee  _ this. _

When she joined the academy, she wanted to help people; instead, she is now stuck in the 'Other' division. Y'know, the one all cops crap on with various levels of taunting.

Maria sighs.

She's been called an exorcist way too many times to count. Yet, ghosts aren't malicious. Those that cause damage are angry and hurt, most likely in need of a friendly presence to make their transition calmer. She learned this from an old man that resided across the street when she was sixteen. Oh, he died way before that, about two centuries ago, a scientist that got lynched for his 'demonic' ideas. Communicating with him was tough, because ghosts can't be heard, only seen, but the man managed. Apparently, the longer a ghost is around, the more creative they get in finding ways to interact with the physical world.

Which is how  _ this situation _ could be explained.

Maria sighs again and climbs the stairs, then pushes open the front door.

The house has two stories and an attic, much like many of the old buildings built in the middle of the 19 th century. She can't help but smile at the imagined fantasy of people living here, at how the old furniture would look, at least the broken bits left behind.

She doesn't bother with the basement anymore, the source is not there. Instead, she climbs right to the sitting room of the first floor, keeping her ears peeled in case there's indeed an actual danger.

Nope, not this time either, it seems.

The ghost is there again, sitting at a table next to the window, in a beautiful armchair. There's another one on the other side, waiting for Maria to sit in, while the tea is set between them.

Maria doesn't understand how she does it. How the ghost is calling the police station. It's always the same, a woman, complaining about a ghost, the audio noisy and distorted. There is never another living person here, so it must be her.

Virginia Potts.

She was born in 1840, Maria has researched her, and died in 1868. Tall, wiry, her red hair neatly tied in a bun, her clothes black, she was the only child of a coal magnate. The house is in the care of an attorney firm that enforces the Potts' will to never disturb the property. Virginia's death was surrounded by mystery, at the time. A young woman, single after her father's passing, she lived in the house for two years before dropping dead in her sitting room.

Perhaps her tea was poisoned.

"The tea wasn't poisoned," her radio crackles to life and Maria startles enough to step back.

The air is charged, tickling the skin of her cheeks. She turns her radio on.

"Sgt. Carter, did you say something?" The line hisses with noise, but nothing comes through. "Sharon?"

"I'm talking now," drifts through the speaker, the words stilted, sounds popping with heavy interference.

Huh. So it  _ was _ her.

"How'd you learn to do that?" she asks the ghost, who, as usual, pays her no mind as she has her tea.

Maria scratches her cheek. Why is this one so adamant on calling her back? It can't be that she has something to solve, she's been dead for too long. In Maria's experience ghosts that stay, stay forever. They're attached to an object or a place and linger there, between realms.

"My name is—"

"Maria."

A shudder passes through Maria. This is freakier than anything she experienced before.

"And you are Virginia Potts."

"Pepper."

Pepper? Salt? What? Oh, wait, a nickname.

"Nice, to meet you, Pepper," Maria says and the ghost smiles at her teacup, without looking up. "Why are you still here?"

"It's tea time."

Nothing else follows, for long minutes, as Maria considers the situation. In the end, she approaches the table, then makes as if to sit in the other armchair. The thing is an illusion, though, so she ends up cross legged on the floor, but the image moves with her, until the table and the chairs are halfway into the floor. Pepper, too.

It's creepy and weird and it gives Maria goosebumps.

Chills, too, when Pepper finally looks at her, eyes bright, almost alive.

~

There's a call about some kids being scared witless in the cemetery just as Maria's shift is about to end. Carter, the desk sergeant, is having none of Maria's complaints.

"You know we can't send anyone who doesn't  _ see _ ," Sharon says.

"Then send Phil," Maria raises both eyebrows. "He's been sitting on his ass ever since I joined the division."

Well, division is a big word for a room with two desks, her and Phil and the drying cactus on the window sill.

Sharon opens her mouth and closes it a few times. "Phil's still here?"

Ah, damn. No wonder Maria doesn't remember ever hearing him speak.

~

So her mentor is a ghost, and her best friend is a ghost, and Maria complains to Pepper about the injustices of life well into the night.

Wait, when did Pepper become her best friend?

Maria needs to get out more.

Yet, somehow, she always ends up at her favorite house with her favorite ghost.

~

"Here," Maria says as she places the daffodil on the table between them.

It ends up on the floor, a little lower than the surface of the cloth. It's eerie, drawing Maria's attention for long moments. She's been having a headache ever since she woke up, but now, looking at the flower, it drains away bit by tiny bit. Her eyes close slowly, the air dusty with the inhale, cold with the exhale. The tension in her muscles fades, and she blinks at the flower a few times before she finally looks up.

Pepper is waiting, eyebrows raised silently, a smirk on her lips.

"It's been a year," Maria defends with a shrug, "and you like these."

"I do, thank you," Pepper says.

Her smile is brighter and Maria can't help but match it.

They spend the afternoon talking about the new show that Maria started watching, a sci-fi combined with fantasy that they both enjoy. As usual, Pepper listens with interest and Maria rants on and on. Here she feels like she can let go of the hard exterior she needs to display to survive in the cop world.

Here, it feels like home more than in her small apartment.

The sound of a few sirens comes from the street and Maria straightens. When did it get dark?

"Well, I gotta get going, morning shift tomorrow," she tells Pepper as she stands and pats the dust off her pants.

Pepper nods, like she always does, but this time she floats downstairs after Maria, then stops on the porch, watching. It's peculiar, but hey, ghosts are weird like that. She makes her way through responders, checking her radio and phone. No calls for her in this area, so she waves at a paramedic, side eyes Cpt. Fury as she passes him; if he's here, something big must've happened, but Maria's tired. She's sure she'll hear all about it tomorrow.

The night is crisp, the sky clear above, so Maria decides to walk, at least for a while. There's another bus stop a few blocks away and that's where she heads, taking her time to enjoy the silence.

Ah, the store with cookies she always wanted to visit is across the street and Maria steps off the sidewalk—

Sharp pain blooms in her chest, making her fall to her knees. She scrambles back until her shoulders hit a wall. Her lungs try and try, but no air comes and Maria screams, because her legs—

Her legs—

They're dissolving and—

"Shh," comes from the side, gentle fingers on her forehead before the same hands grip at her shoulders and pull. "You're fine, see," Pepper's face drifts into view, overlaying the image of Maria's legs as they become whole again, "it's just the border pushing you back."

What.

Pepper sits down on the ground next to her, catches her hand. The same smile that Maria finds calming is on her lips and it helps.

"This afternoon, at a quarter past five, an aneurysm ruptured."

It helps to understand.

"You died instantly."

Oh.

"I felt it from you, every time you passed by," Pepper says. "And I know you liked it, the house."

It makes sense.

"So it's yours now."

But that means—Maria startles, clutches at Pepper's fingers. "You can't go, we're friends."

Pepper grins, as brilliant as the stars above.

"Friends," she says. "I like friends. Let's go home."

~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, many thanks to Tanouska for putting up with my whining :)   
> The last stories of the year, everyone. This and the other two chapters should be up in the next couple of hours.   
> Enjoy!


	6. Before Afterlife

Jim shakes his head as he closes the drawer. It's always hard autopsying kids, but the girls he just finished are very bright and very much in love. They've decided to haunt the house that killed them with toxic mold, to ensure that nobody else dies there. He knows it, it's on the other side of the city, in the middle of a semi-abandoned area of old houses. For good reason, too, because the cemetery that sits in the middle of the neighborhood is one of the most active in the region. It's why the city is building a new mortuary there. They hope they can study it under the guise of tending for the dead, but Jim is not so sure. Ghosts and spirits are reluctant to interact with 'the blind' as they put it.

"Morning, Rhodes," Dr. Banner mumbles as he ambles in, distracted as always.

"Morning," Jim tells him.

And that's the most interaction Jim usually has with the living. He works the night shift, he doesn't have friends, his parents passed away a while back, as for a more permanent companion... Jim doesn't really need one of those. Romance has escaped him, all his life, its meaning and purpose elusive. Don't get him wrong, he loved his parents, still loves his dog, but he's never understood the 'in love' part of love, not as they show it in the movies.

Besides, Jim is never alone.

There's always a wandering spirit that needs his help. Jim spends weeks with some, months with others, until he can untangle their unsolved business. Some want to linger in specific places, others disappear once they solve their issues. Where that is, he doesn't know. He figures he'll find out when his time comes. Until then, though, he goes back to his paperwork, waiting for the next one. In his thirty six years of life Jim has helped eighteen ghosts, the two from earlier included.

It's a secret he keeps well. Oh, not because it would impair his job, no. If anything, he'd be paid more if he admitted to his boss that he can see the ghosts. Jim just doesn't want to end up an experiment himself because... well, Jim can hear them, too.

And then, there's the other thing. It works like this: if he concentrates hard enough, he can tether the ghosts to wherever they want to. It's why they came to him in the first place and by now Jim's managing it almost effortlessly.

Nobody, as far as he is aware, can hear or anchor ghosts. There was this incident in Ancient Tibet, but the historical accounts are not conclusive. So Jim has learned not to react to sound, not to startle, not to reply immediately to words in case they aren't coming from the living. It makes it hard to keep friends, true, but helping the spirits find peace has been the most satisfying thing ever.

That's why, when he looks up from his desk and seven of them are standing around him, he yelps, for the first time in his life.

Good thing that Banner's wearing headphones.

~

Two days later the ghosts are still here. All seven are ones that remained for various reasons. Some glare at him, others are confused, but they all say the same thing. They were doing whatever it was they stayed for, when suddenly they got ripped away and brought to Jim.

So he takes a night off work and starts going back to the places where he helped ghosts settle.

He starts with the girls, Peggy and Sif. They remain outside the haunted house on the sidewalk as Jim drives by. Two down, five to go, and Jim traverses the city, dropping them off one by one. The last two, Jane and Scott, are silently occupying the back seat of his car as he stops in front of Scott's house. He stayed for his little girl, to be able to watch her grow, and Jim smiles at Scott's glee as he saunters toward the front door with a wave.

"Ready?" he asks Jane.

"Hey, did you know they built a new observatory? Do you think I can stay there instead?"

Jim can't see why not, so he shrugs, starting the car. It shouldn't be an issue, just a couple of miles outside the city. He drives forward, activates the turn light and—

He swerves, startled, by all the ghosts popping inside and around his car again. Good thing that he hits the brakes on time, otherwise they'd all be toast.

~

This is bad.

Very very bad.

From what they can figure out, he hasn't tethered the ghosts to other places, but to himself.

For the past month they've been experimenting and Jane concluded that the tethering Jim was doing was just an expansion of his radius field. When the last two ghosts entered the equation, it got beyond what he can control.

Jim looks around his living room, heart breaking for each one.

Peggy and Sif want to keep people from dying and they sit huddled near the window, watching everyone warily. Peter needs to be with his aunt and Phil wants to stay at the police station. Melinda's sole focus is to make sure her grandchildren are safe, while Scott is unsuccessfully trying to hide is ethereal tears behind the sofa. The whole rug is frosted over and Jim sighs.

"Look, guys, I'm sorry," he says, but even Jane ignores him this time.

She stayed for the science and to travel, one day, through space. It seems like she won't make it there after all.

~

Jim tries, he really really tries, to bring them peace. A few more spirits have passed through since then, but Jim ignored them completely until they left the morgue. Seven is enough.

Jane has been morose, even stopped talking to him. He drives each day to Peter's aunt to let him spend a couple of hours there, then by the police station for Phil, downtown for Melinda where her grandkids are attending college. Scott is the hardest to tear away from his little girl. The highschool girls also want to visit their families and friends, and they have many of those.

Jim feels spread thin, between his night shifts and staying awake all day.

~

"She's taking her away," Scott yells, air chilling fast around them, even though they're in the morgue.

Jim says nothing.

His wife is moving to another city for a better job and Scott is unable to follow. He's inconsolable, for good reason.

"This is all your fault."

"Hey, wait," Phil starts, but Jim doesn't pay attention anymore.

Because Scott's right. It's all on Jim. He puts on his headphones and tries to hide his wet eyes from Banner.

~

There is only one solution to this problem.

To free them.

~

Jim prepares the syringe carefully. He's made the calculations, this dose should make it painless and gentle.

It's a good thing the ghosts are silent today, he's made sure to argue with each one. So now they're moping around his radius, but not here, in this room. Jim watches the freezer drawers for a while, wondering which one will be his. Ah, maybe Banner will stick him into a middle one and Jim smiles. Those are his favorites.

He decided the morgue is the best place. Will ensure quick discovery, easy cleaning. Easier than his apartment, anyway. Besides, the landlady is a kind person, he wouldn't want to do that to her.

With an inhale, Jim rolls a chair closer to the examination table, sits down, and rolls up his sleeve, extending his forearm on the cold metal. He finds a spot, but then spends an interminable amount of seconds slowly pressing his fingertips over it.

His hand is shaking when he picks it up—

His vision blurs over—

The syringe is smacked out of his grip.

"What the hell are you doing?"

~

Banner says nothing. He also does nothing but glare at Jim as he fills out his paperwork.

Jim thought he'd be home today.

The syringe still sits on the floor near the grate where it fell earlier, mocking, accusing, much more so than the collective looks he's getting from his spirits.

"Why?" Phil asks after a while.

Jim shakes his head. "You should be free," he whispers.

"And why did you think we'd want _that_?" Scott asks, pointing at the syringe. "Why didn't you ask us?"

Jim curls in on himself where he's still sitting in the chair.

"So you can see _and_ hear them," Banner comments and Jim's head snaps up. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll transfer with me to the new place."

~

"Come on Rhodey, please," Tony whines. Behind him, Steve is shaking his head.

"It's Betty's turn," Jim counters. "Let her have time with Bruce, and then we'll do more experiments." Jim can't blow that off. After all, it's the reason he got blackmailed into moving here here, so Bruce is closer to his wife.

Tony grumbles, but relents. He's found a ghost right at the edge of his radius that can operate electronics, but he needs Jim to extend both of his and Pepper's areas so they can interact and learn from each other. At least them roping Jane in is keeping her distracted. His ghosts are patient and understanding, it seems, content to roam around the cemetery, satisfied with monthly visits to their dear ones.

Jim sits on the sofa in the break room, waiting for Bruce and his departed wife, when Scott floats down next to him.

He hasn't seen Scott once in the last six months, ever since that night when he tried—must've been moping out of sight.

"I'm sorry," Jim says.

"I'm not."

Well that's—"Why?"

Scott pats his knee and smiles. "I realized I'm already dead and you aren't. We should make the best of it."

"We?"

Slowly, Scott nods, while the other six materialize around them.

Huh, look at that. Jim smiles.

We.

~  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send your thanks to Tanouska and Hraf :D  
> Enjoy!


	7. The Necromancer

The sun is high in the sky when Thor arrives at the house and he spares a moment to pat at his robes. Eh, it's not like mortals can see spirit dust, but well. He likes to be presentable.

Even now, when he's about to do the unthinkable.

With a last look upwards, he walks toward the entrance, musing at his life, which might as well be over by next morning.

He was but a small boy when he was given to Midgard by his father, a token to Strange, diplomacy at its finest. However, Thor knows the real reason behind this: Odin can't let a necromancer rule Asgard. Thor scoffs at the memory, pushing it aside. He's had wonderful centuries here, though. Stephen's a strange mentor, pun intended.

And really, Thor likes what he does. He helps mend the barriers of realms, between the dead and the living, accompanies lost souls on their last journey, reanimates dead things.

Most of the covenant do much of the same. Loki, for instance, brings back the heads of murder victims for their testimonies. Thor, however, is content with his small task of temporarily reviving pets for their loved ones to say goodbye. The rich ones, who pay hefty sums for this secret, get to remember the experience. The others, Thor makes them believe they dreamed it. Closure is achieved and their existence is protected.

So now Thor is about to do the unthinkable. He's about to reanimate an entire human.

To say it's frowned upon is underestimating what Strange will do to punish him. Thor runs his hand over the leather bracelet that ties him to the covenant, that fuels some of his powers, the ones that don't come from the dead aether. He'll lose those, if Strange takes the connection away. Yet, Thor can't—

He can't let _her_ stay dead.

His favorite author.

He walks to the coffin, peeks inside—wow. He didn't think she'd be so young, barely twenty two. Her father is greeting guests, her mother sobs quietly, while her twin brother stands morosely to the side, ignoring the crowd. Thor sighs. The house is lovely, though, he thinks as he looks around. They're doing this in their own home, as per eastern tradition, before they take the body on its last trip to the graveyard. Thor has scouted the place already, it has only one groundskeeper, an old man surrounded by ghosts, so Thor shouldn't have too much trouble digging her up. Unless the spirits get fussy, but he knows how to placate them.

~

Thor pats at his robes again, but this time the dust and mud are stubborn. He's going to have to wash the entire thing and he shakes his head at the grave before dropping the shovel aside.

It doesn't take long to wake her and pull her out of the hole while she's still confused. She had a weak heart that gave out before it should have. Congenital defect, her medical chart said, and it's why she hasn't had an autopsy. Her family also opted out of embalming, Thor made sure to change the records at the hospital's morgue, instead slipping a charm on her to keep her tissues fresh through the funeral.

Now, here they are, and Thor waits for her disorientation to fade as she looks around at the grave, the open casket, the casting circle drawn onto the grass.

Thor grins.

Wanda screams.

~

"Ok, so let me get this straight," she says as she paces the length between two headstones. "This," she points at the obsidian pendant hanging around her neck, "is keeping my body alive."

"Yes," Thor confirms. "It's just a rejuvenating charm. I'm the one keeping your spirit inside that body."

Wanda stops and looks at him, eyes wide. "How?"

Thor coughs in his fist. "I, um, tether you to me and then make you, um..." he rotates his hands helplessly, "stay in there? It's hard to explain."

"But why?"

"Necromancers can do that. We're actually very rare," Thor says, lifting his chin proudly. "It's a really great feat to keep spirits around, takes a lot of emotional energy, a lot of magic, too. It's dangerous, but very much worth it."

A small smile makes its way onto Wanda's face and Thor's even more proud with himself.

"I meant why me," she says, looking at him with a mixture of bashfulness and admiration, causing Thor to blurt out the exact reason why he risked everything.

"I need to know what happens to headmaster Hermione and Ron and their adopted son Harry."

There's a fraction of a second when Wanda freezes where she stands, but then her mouth opens and closes silently a few times. Finally, she inhales, exhales toward the sky, before taking a step toward Thor.

"You kept me alive for fanfiction?" she asks as she pokes at his chest.

"But—"

"What the hell, man!" She shoves both hands in her hair, turns around, and once more, until she's facing him again. "You could've saved someone that knows the cure for cancer and you wasted it on me."

Thor's initial surprise is gone as fast as it came because of course Wanda would say that.

"Maybe _you_ have it, did you think about that?"

"Huh?"

"The cure for cancer, maybe you have it," Thor continues. "I know for a fact there's a kid in the hospital that finds strength to live because he's waiting on your updates. On the other side of the world a single mother's only pleasure is to read your stories."

"They can read the originals—" Wanda starts, but Thor shakes his head, interrupting her.

"Yours are different," he breathes. "The world needs different."

Her swallow is audible in the silence of the cemetery and Wanda takes a step back. Thor lets her have her space as she considers this, busies himself with listening to their surroundings. A couple of rows over, a few ghosts watch them curiously, but they're shrouded in shadows under a tree and keeping their distance, so Thor lets them be.

"So if I keep writing, you'll keep me alive? Is that it?" Wanda asks, drawing Thor's attention back to her.

"Oh, no," he says. "You'll always be tethered to me now, and as long as the pendant is not broken, you'll also have your body."

Wanda frowns. "It's permanent?"

With half a shrug, Thor nods, causing Wanda's shoulders to slump.

"Well, I guess I can do that," she says and Thor grins.

"Great, now let's cover this up."

"Really? You're gonna make me work on my own grave," Wanda complains, but she's laughing quietly and Thor's mirth doubles.

"One more thing," Thor says as they start shoveling the dirt back in the hole. "We can't tell anyone. It's forbidden to tether spirits to ourselves."

"How so?" Wanda asks, wary look back on her face.

"It—"

"—can drive them mad," a voice says from the side and they both turn.

Wanda shouts and throws her flashlight at the man who, despite leaning on a cane, has approached unnoticed.

~

"I am really sorry," Thor says again as he carefully places a bandaid on the old man's forehead.

His name is Clint and he's the administrator of the cemetery, still hanging strong despite his old age. Clint bats his hand away before grabbing his cane and batting at Thor's legs, too.

"Take your corpse and go," Clint grumbles.

"Are you sure you're fine?"

"I made tea," Wanda says as she carries in a mug from the kitchen.

The house is small and cold, some portions of the walls frosted over, others stained by repeated oscillations of temperature. Oh. Thor knows the cause, he's seen it before.

That's when he notices the five ghosts watching them. One signs something, causing Clint to roll his eyes.

"You can't hear them," he comments, but as he does so, he notices the aids in Clint's ears. "Because you lost your hearing and it somehow translated into the netherworld. How is this possible?"

"Go away," Clint says, but snatches the mug from Wanda.

"Do you know what you are?" Thor asks.

"I don't want to know. Go away."

"How old are you?"

"He's eighty six," one of the ghosts says, a tall man in military uniform.

The mug of tea flies toward Thor's head and he stops it in mid air with a wave of his hand. Next thing he knows, a gun is pointed at him and Wanda whimpers. One of the other ghosts, a redhead, slides in front of Clint, signs something again, and Clint relents at whatever she's telling him, because he lowers the gun.

With a sigh that sounds more like a growl, Clint lowers himself back in the chair. "A Dr. Strange came once to recruit me," he says, extending his hand for the mug. Wanda plucks it from the air to place it against his palm and Clint sips slowly. "I don't want it," he continues, "immortality."

Oh. Thor exhales. "It's your choice."

"And I don't need your help, either. Only got one attached to me," Clint says with a smile toward the military man.

The other ghosts nods and confirm they're tethered to other things, like the mirrors around the house, or even another building at the edge of the graveyard.

"Unlike the idiot doc that has seven," Clint continues. "Seven!"

"What—"

"Oh, yeah, grandma's stuck with this medical examiner dude," Wanda says.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Thor turns toward her, mind already rushing a mile a minute with the dangers that accompany this information.

Wanda raises her eyebrows and shrugs.

"Where is he now?"

"New building on the other side of the cemetery," Clint says, rubbing at his knee.

Thor hurries, out the door, down the path—and then he turns back.

"Do you know what will happen to you two when you die?" he asks Clint.

"Yeah, made sure we're staying with he mirrors," the old man says with a scoff. "'m not stupid."

"But what if someone tears them down?"

"Actually—" Wanda starts, raising a finger.

"The corpse is right, you should stay here," Clint interrupts.

"I don't wanna live in a cemetery," Thor grimaces.

"Take it or leave it," Wanda says.

The ghosts are laughing, and so is Clint. "I like you, kid."

"Thanks, old man."

"What have I gotten myself into," Thor mutters as he heads off again to check on the doctor.

~

It must be some really strong power Clint possesses, if he isn't dead yet. The fact that Clint, without training, survived this long with a spirit is giving him hope. And the doctor—James Rhodes, the bones whisper Thor his name—surely must know how to handle being on the brink of madness.

Wanda falls into step with him halfway through his trek across the cemetery.

"So this magic, can I do it too?" she asks waving her hands and wiggling her fingers.

"I don't see why not," Thor muses. "Would you like to try?"

Wanda hops on the path in front of him. "Yes!"

Hm, Thor never had an apprentice of his own, and even though Wanda is basically dead, it still brings him glee. Thor smiles. He's about to meet his second necromancer. His favorite writer is walking by his side, her beautiful mind saved. Around, seven ghosts are gathering slowly just as a man in a white coat walks out to meet him.

Perhaps Strange is wrong, after all.

The handshake is cold, the greeting warm, his presence welcome.

Perhaps necromancy is not meant to be a burden carried alone, but a gift to be shared.

He unties the bracelet that connects him to the covenant and drops it in the grass. He doesn't need them anymore.

Thor has found his own.

 

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thanks to Tanouska for the incredible patience :)
> 
> This is it everyone. I hope to see you all with a better year in 2017.  
> And here's what I hope for: to write more, take better care of myself, get things published, keep the friends I made so far (and maybe meet some in person).
> 
> Have a wonderful night! o/


End file.
